My eyes narrow. “Yes, I think that’s exactly who that was.”
“And then after the game, one of the reporters had pink hair. Well, she was blonde, but she had pink strands in it.” He rolls his shoulder, and his eyes seem to drift off somewhere behind me.
“Did she say anything weird?” I ask.
“Who?” His eyes focus back on me.
“The pink-haired reporter?”
“Oh. She seemed to know about my shoulder, but I doubt that was magic.”
“Or it was,” I argue, crossing my arms.
“Okay, let’s assume that’s what happened,” he begins.
I nod.
“Why would this Stella woman curse us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she was bored.”
“Bored?” His head tilts to the side, and another chuckle escapes past his lips.
“I don’t know why witches do what they do.” My arms fly into the air, and I shift my weight. “I’m not a witch. But I know that women with pink hair seemed to be common last night, and Stella had pink hair. I don’t have any other leads.”
“This is ridiculous. Witches aren’t real.” He throws his head back, running his hands up his face and through his hair.
“You don’t know that.”
“I think I do. But I’ll keep playing along. So, what’s your game plan?”
“What’smygame plan?”
“Yes, how do you propose we find a witch?”
“I don’t know. What’syourgame plan?”
He just stares at me, and I wish he would speak. I wish he would say something helpful, but he doesn’t.
“Great, so neither of us has a plan.”
As the reality of our situation begins to settle in, pressure builds behind my eyes. We don’t have a plan. We may never get back toNew York. I might not get to dance on Christmas. I may never see my family again.
Tears break free and begin to run down my face. Wiping them away, I do my best to push the fear aside and formulate a coherent thought, but my mind is too muddled by my emotions, and all I can think about is how badly I wish I was home.
“I know this is strange, but we have to stay focused,” he says. “Crying about it isn’t going to get us home.”
“Crying about it isn’t going to get us home?” I scoff. “Forgive me for trying to process this incredibly insane situation we’re in.” I wipe my eyes with my fingers and turn to walk away.
“Wait, where are you going?” he asks, following me out of the bedroom and into the living room.
Unsurprisingly, everything is pink. A rose-colored couch covered in different pink-hued pillows is positioned across from a small brick fireplace that is painted white. Snow flocked Christmas garland decorated with pink and silver ornaments hangs on the wooden mantle. Two pink velvet stockings hang below. More faux memories of me with Everett are framed and sit on every flat surface.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think this bitch was taunting me.
Tall windows give a picturesque view of the snowy backyard. Evergreen trees tower over a small clearing where a hot tub and small fire pit are set up. Lights are strung above it all.
Moving across the space, I walk into the kitchen and begin opening the white cabinets.
